


The Opposite of Force

by newredshoes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hell, Horror, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-19
Updated: 2010-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newredshoes/pseuds/newredshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Are you comfortable? Are you secure?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Opposite of Force

"Are you comfortable?"

Alastair runs the tips of his fingers up John's exposed wrist. He's perched on the edge of the rack, like a doctor visiting a patient, delivering news. John flinches, but to his credit, he doesn't move. Alastair smiles. "Let me know if any of those are loose. We wouldn't want you feeling insecure, would we."

Above, he was the strong, silent type; so too below, it seems. Alastair nods to himself and stands up. He opens the case of tools with a master craftsman's pride, slowly adjusting and propping up the case until its array of implements is shown to its best advantage. John is not looking. Good. He's good at that. He got good in Vietnam, and it's served him ever since. Alastair is patient. He folds his hands, stands aside and waits.

John looks. They always do. First he steals a glance from the corner of his eye, then stares into the middle distance for a time. His chest rises and falls with a forced steadiness. He's close to bursting. Alastair can taste that memory of a thrashing heart. At last he tries to rolls his head. The straps have a little give, and John takes in the toolbox at his leisure.

"Those for me?" he grunts.

"Yes," says Alastair. "Do you like them?" John says nothing. Alastair takes a step forward, his fingertips lingering over the table. "Are you comfortable? Are any of your straps loose?" John looks him in the eye. He tugs and strains against the rack, in what's meant, Alastair supposes, to be a show of defiance. It's frightfully droll. Alastair smiles.

"Here's what I'm going to do," he tells him. "I'm going to stand right here, and I'm not going to do anything at all. I want you to have a nice long think, John. Think about what I'm going to do to your boys when I get them. And think about what you want to do to me first." He settles down again, perched on the edge of the rack. The toolbox shows to its best advantage. John's eyes roll in his head. He pushes, he labors, he strains. His breath grows harsh and ragged. Alastair runs his fingers over his good, strong straps.


End file.
